


Half Gold

by Wacko_Azimuth



Category: TOO | Ten Oriented Orchestra (Band)
Genre: #Write inane ficlets in a night challenge, Alternate Universe - College/University, Ambiguous Relationships, Clubbing, Colors, Eventual Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Introspection, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, One Night Stands, or the attempt thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28228239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wacko_Azimuth/pseuds/Wacko_Azimuth
Summary: Jeyou is new experiences, ringing laughter and zest for life.He's silver, radiant and graceful.Chanhyuk is a broken record, sneers and jadedness.He's brass; half gold and fading.
Relationships: Cho Chanhyuk | Chan/Kim Jeyou | J.You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	Half Gold

**Author's Note:**

> So, welcome to another scene inspired by the semi-autobiographical novel that I'll never see to completion a.k.a. the NCT Doie fic. (Not that you know or need to know about that.)
> 
> [This is what I had in mind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jyFl_FcYQX0) for ~~when I absolutely didn't mention~~ Chanhyuk's aesthetic ~~at all.~~
> 
> (Read this in night mode for a better user experience 😉)

After the confusion, they've settled into a comfortable silence, lying side-by-side in the dimly lit room in a bed that's hardly enough for two.

He contemplates the ceiling. The room is grey; grey from the city lights barely filtering through carelessly closed curtains, the gloom broken only by a single orange spot, a stiff arm sticking out of the bed's edge, holding a half-ignored lit cigarette from a half-forgotten pack on the bedside drawer.

Half-asleep, half-sober, half-past 3AM. Half-everything tonight.

_"It's not tonight. It's tomorrow's night," the clock says._

Half-unknown still, the one lying to his right, he thinks.

* * *

A familiar face, black and green.

A face known from Instagram updates and friends' contact pictures seen from the corner of an eye and shy waves, barely acknowledged, through the glass of the classroom doors as he struts down the hallway; from secret smiles and stolen glances and way too many chance encounters to be coincidence.

A familiar face, flickering red and purple and flashes of a white that's not there but only in his eyes, dazed by the lights. An inviting smile and the face turns around and gets away, meshing sinuously, seamlessly, with the shifting crowd.

He follows it, entranced.

~

_— “leave it all behind, all you need is right in front of you” —  
_

Reaching for the orange figure from behind, an arm around the waist; instantly feeling the weight and the heat of close contact in his chest as the body surrenders without struggle.

_— “you and me in paradise until the morning” —  
_

The music an exhortation –a promise for a tandem but made to all present– hammering in his ears and grinding away at his sanity, much like the multicolored form he's possessing in his arms. The hammering fades in the background, easily ignored; there's no one, nothing else in here but themselves.

_— “higher, higher, burning my desire” —_

Tickling, the warmth in his ear, on his neck, as he holds him; the shared warmth as they exchange ragged breaths on cheeks, nose and lips that graze each other frequently, fleetingly, haphazardly, never quite locking into place like the rest of them.

_—_ _“Baby take me home with you tonight." —  
_

~

An invitation —half whisper and half laughter— after half a dozen shots, perhaps more, in the neon blue of the club where the loud beat has become meaningless rumble surrounding a world made out of two. 

* * *

He sees him sitting, half sitting and half lying against the headboard; goosebumps and a stare fixed nowhere, covering himself with the dark blue comforter he holds up to his chest in a protective gesture he can't help but find endearing.

_Guy's head must be a mess right now._

* * *

_Ochre._

He settles for ochre to name it, the color of the dim lighting in the streets with the neon places where glowing boys thrive.

The cab cruises, studiously ignoring all the red lights in the half-lit streets, unusually empty tonight; unusual because they only buzz in the dark, these side streets with the opulent names, close by but hiding from the gaze of the golden boulevards from which they spring.

_Filled with them, hiding like them, their nightly inhabitants, the ones with much promise and little urge, out to let off some steam._

There's a metaphor in there somewhere, he thinks as he looks out the backdoor window —chin resting on his clenched hand, elbow on the armrest—, but right now he can't be bothered to find it.

_The whole thing's a fucking metaphor._

~

It had been an invitation, he remembers, watching the other, who rests propped on his side, head on his shoulder, pretty much asleep. _His nightly catch._

An invitation that he doesn't intend to make use of, not tonight, he's decided.

Half his mind is occupied with the nagging feeling that there's something he forgot back there.

* * *

Stopping in front of the building, an exchange, a blunt farewell and the effort to wake up the golden child.

_A child?_

He has to admit he's having a hard time seeing him as more than that, slim age gap notwithstanding.

_Age is measured by experience._

~

Tentative steps —holding him, holding each other— and an arm shooting up to cover his face, wincing at the blindingly white lobby and finding respite in the subdued cream and hazel of the elevator with the striped wood and the hallway with the plain carpeting; the soothing blind-blackness of the apartment.

The hand reaching up for the light switch is a stereotyped response; a conditioned reflex.

The hand that covers his, telling it to stay still, the shushing negation; that was unexpected.

He directs him a quizzical look that is lost in the darkness of the lounge.

* * *

He leaves him sitting on the edge of bed, kneeling to untie his shoes. The corners of his mouth curl upwards slightly when he hears him plop down and lie on his back.

Pulling up his legs, he maneuvers to straighten him, the boy compliant in his drowsy state.

He shrugs off his jacket and throws it to the desk and remembers to tell the boy's friends about this. Whipping out the phone he turns away to look for a blanket in the closet and settle on the couch for the night.

There's a tugging on his back; a hand clenched tightly, clutching onto his shirt; a face imploring like a child's.

* * *

Chanhyuk exhales.

"Did we...?" the boy finally speaks.

"No," he answers, not really looking at him. He can see an uncertain expression in the other's face, a pout seemingly fighting to remain concealed.

The familiar voice speaks again, slow and deeper and breathier than usual. "Why?" and he stares, stares, expectant eyes following his every move.

_You were wasted and vulnerable, he wants to say._

Chanhyuk turns on the night lamp and looks at him sideways. He gets up to sit on the side of the bed and stubs the cigarette in the ashtray.

An uncomfortable sensation wells up inside of him. _What's different now?_

~

_It had been something unthinkable for Chanhyuk; a night of firsts, again. For both of them._

_For him, a plain first time, youthful bravado pulling him all through it._

_For Chanhyuk, the first time he cared about whoever was on the other side._

_~_

Chanhyuk resists the pressing need to turn around and look him in the eyes. _Tell him the truth._

He speaks up, his voice a low rumble. "I thought you deserved a better man." 

_~_

_Jeyou is daybreaks, blinding sunlight and light summer rain, soft serve ice cream and fizzy lime-flavored drinks under a tree; giggles barely contained by the palm of a hand; throwing pebbles and paper planes and bare feet in the sand; coffee shop pop; boba tea and holding hands in a public bench, oblivious to the world. He's light novels and airy dramas and falling asleep to cuddles in the couch._

_Chanhyuk is midnight and downpours; cold takeout and black coffee, paper cups and the feel of alcohol burning down one's throat; he's red eyes and dark circles in the mirror; humorless laughter and a smile that doesn't reach the eyes; sudden cold and sudden pains; ripped jeans and grimy Converses. He's missed calls and blocked texts, dog-eared books thrown carelessly around the room, movies left forgotten on the TV and days spent lying on one's back, staring at the ceiling._

_Jeyou is new experiences, ringing laughter and zest for life._

_He's silver, radiant and graceful._

_Chanhyuk is a broken record, sneers and jadedness._

_He's brass; half gold and fading._

~

Jeyou's eyebrows shoot up, a barely-there gesture and then it's gone. He sits up straight against the headboard, staring at his feet.

He turns towards him again, self-assurance glowing in his face this time; the comforter in his hands long gone. _That's your truth,_ the eyes seem to say.

And he smiles.

"We can be a better man."

**Author's Note:**

> And then they kiss.
> 
> Perhaps. 
> 
> Comments and curses are always welcome. 😁


End file.
